Vango

It had the effect of sixteen hydrogen balloons from the Graf Zeppelin popping out of his chest one by one.

  Vango read three words repeated several times and a first name. Those words would change his life. That first name had been haunting him ever since he was fourteen. Those words and that name had one chance in a billion of ending up on this piece of paper in this spot at this moment.

  Who are you?

  Who are you?

  Who are you?

  Ethel.

  Later on that same night, in a dump at Saint-Escobille, outside the gates of Paris, the contents of a garbageman’s cart was being tipped onto a mountain of trash. A site worker pushed out what remained with a fork.

  “You’re the last ones,” he told the old man in the hat, who was pulling the cart.

  “They kept us for four hours at the police station. They’d blocked all the doors. I had no idea what was going on. I’m off to bed.”

  The worker helped him park his cart alongside the others.

  “Good night.”

  “’Night.”

  Silence was restored.

  The only sound was the scurrying of rats.

  A moment later, the stinking mound started moving. A man got out and stood up. He gave one of the rodents a good kick and wiped his hand across his greasy face.

  “My God,” he said.

  A few hours earlier, he had been carrying a case with PEST CONTROL AND RAT-CATCHING on it: Zefiro had managed to escape.

  He fumbled for his watch in his jacket pocket. It was time to join Vango at the Gare d’Austerlitz.

  Once he was outside and hugging the wall of the dump, he didn’t have the faintest inkling that twenty-five meters behind him, the old man in the hat was following him in the shadows.

  Sochi, a few days later, August 1935

  “Setanka! I don’t want to play anymore.”

  Setanka didn’t answer. She was hidden in the long grass on a dune, just above the others. The little boy had been trying to find her for the best part of an hour. He was close to tears.

  “Tell me where you are!”

  Why didn’t Setanka enjoy these picnics on the shores of the Black Sea so much anymore? During their never-ending games of hide-and-seek, she would let her little cousin brush past without seeing her.

  “Setanka, Setanotchka . . .”

  As she lay there, daydreaming, she could feel the grasshoppers climbing over her skin. She was watching the clusters of people sitting in the sun.

  There were so many of them, just like in the old days. Grandfather, Grandmother, Uncle Pavloucha, the Redens and their children, Uncle Aliocha Svanidzé and Aunt Maroussia, who could sing opera arias. If Setanka turned slightly, she had a view of her father, half propped against a dead tree, talking to a man she didn’t recognize. Surrounding them, standing in the rushes or in the water, a handful of guards watched over this gathering.

  Until she was six, when her mother was still with them, these picnic lunches were sheer bliss for Setanka. The songs were merrier, the sun more radiant, and the tender words her uncle Pavloucha whispered in her ear as he knelt down in front of her weren’t tinged with sadness as they were today. When August came to a close, and they had to return to Moscow for the start of school, it used to be a wrench to leave their dacha in Sochi.

  These days, despite everybody hooting with laughter at her grandparents’ eternal quarreling, despite Aunt Maroussia’s serenades, there was a sense of fear in the summer air that nothing could assuage.

  At only nine years old, Setanka had no idea where this fear came from, but she could feel it everywhere, clinging to her even more closely than the dress on her sweaty shoulders.

  Sometimes she thought about all those people who had suddenly stopped coming to the house and who were never mentioned again. Where had handsome Kirov and all the others gone? Where?

  Not even in her wildest nightmares could she have imagined that her father, Joseph Stalin, was a man who ruled his country with terror, that he had just organized the famine in the Ukraine, and that in the future, he wouldn’t even spare his own family. A few months later, Aliocha and Maroussia would be arrested, Uncle Pavloucha would die in his office of a strange heart attack, and then there would be Uncle Redens, shot the following year, his wife deported . . .

  “Why didn’t you give me a clue? I’ve been looking for you for an hour!”

  The little boy had finally found Setanka. He was trying to hide the tearstains on his cheeks.

  Setanka held out her hand and pulled him up onto the dune. He crouched down next to her.

  “Are you brave?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” he replied, sounding rather worried.

  “Then follow me,” instructed Setanka.

  They started crawling through the grass. Setanka was in front. She was the elder of the two. Nobody paid any attention to this pair of snakes advancing over the dune. The boy’s knees and elbows were turning green as he dragged himself along.

  “Don’t go so fast,” he begged her.

  “Shhh, be quiet. . . . We’re nearly there.”

  The children slid behind a fallen tree trunk. They could hear voices on the other side. On reaching the dead tree that Setanka’s father was leaning against, they strained their ears.

  Somebody referred to a piece of “good news,” and not long afterward, Setanka heard the words she was always listening for: “The Bird . . .”

  Her heart leaped.

  “The Bird has shown his face in Paris,” a man said. “He left a letter with the police.”

  Setanka put her head to the ground. She could hear her father saying words she didn’t understand.

  “No,” the man replied. “They didn’t catch him.”

  A heavy silence followed.

  “Is that your good news, Comrade?”

  “In his message, the fugitive explained to the police that he is being pursued, but he doesn’t know why or by whom. . . .”

  A fresh silence. Over by the water’s edge, Aunt Maroussia was singing.

  Registering her father’s cold anger, Setanka tried to flatten herself even more.

  “And you’re going to let him make fools of you again?”

  “C-Comrade,” the other man stammered, “I was able to read the whole letter. . . .”

  “The letter tells lies, you idiot!”

  “But . . .”

  “Good-bye.”

  When Setanka heard the rustle of clothes, she curled herself into a ball and pushed her cousin’s face into the grass.

  “Find him!”

  The visitor had just stood up.

  “My apologies for disturbing you, Comrade.”

  Stalin let the man head off before summoning him back with a whistle.

  “You mentioned the woman who brought him up. What do you call her again?”

  “The Bird Seller. She poses no danger. Over there in Italy, everyone says she can’t remember anything. . . .”

  “Put her in a place where she’ll no longer be a risk for us.”

  “You want me to . . . ?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You . . . ?”

  “Bring her here. And keep your eyes peeled. It may well be an occasion for the Bird to show himself. People become very attached to that kind of woman.”

  Setanka thought of her own nanny, Alexandra Andreyevena, who had looked after her with infinite kindness ever since she was born. After her mother had died, Setanka had been saved by her nanny’s tenderness.

  “An operation like that, abroad . . .” the man objected timidly.

  “Act cleanly.”

  “I thought that . . .”

  “Deal with that woman, and don’t disturb me again on a Sunday.”

  Setanka and her cousin stayed there, crouching silently in the grass, for several minutes. They had almost drifted off to sleep, their eyelids growing heavy, when they sensed a shadow of giant proportions hovering over them and heard the terrifying roar of a bear. They rolled over to one side, shrie
king.

  The bear smelled of tobacco. It had Uncle Pavloucha’s brown eyes. It had his long legs too, not to mention his melancholic laugh and his sand-colored jacket cut by a reputable tailor from Berlin.

  The two children jumped on their uncle, who had given them such a fright.

  But the game didn’t last long. It was a halfhearted attempt by Pavloucha to remind the little ones of bygone summers, when Grandfather would pretend to be the bear or when he would gleefully throw Setanka’s mother into the water.

  On the other side of the dead tree, Comrade Stalin was staring at Pavloucha and the children, sprawled on the ground.

  In a few hours, the order would be communicated to remove Vango’s caretaker and to put her in a secure place. Forever.

  Salina, Aeolian Islands, at the same time

  The moment she walked through her front door, Mademoiselle knew that someone had been in the house before her. When you live alone, objects assume a huge importance. Your eye grows accustomed to them. They stay in their allotted place, and the tiniest change is as astounding as a footprint on a deserted beach.

  The cup on the table had shifted position. Not only had it moved a finger’s width, but it had also been turned halfway around. And that half turn was what startled Mademoiselle the most. This tiny nudging of a teacup was as startling for her as a horn blasting its warning through the silence of the island.

  The most striking factor of all was that the cup’s handle had been turned to the right. Now, to anyone else, that might have seemed like a small detail, but for Mademoiselle it was an earthquake. She was left-handed and she always used the handle when picking up her cup, so it was impossible for this cup to be in that position without the intervention of a stranger. A right-handed stranger or, in the worst-case scenario, a left-handed stranger so badly brought up that they didn’t pick up a teacup by its handle.

  Careful not to betray her surprise, she made her way over to the stone sink with her basket of fresh capers.

  Mademoiselle had suspected that they’d be back one day. The last time, they hadn’t found what they were looking for. This time, they wouldn’t give her a second chance.

  She started sorting the capers. She preferred eating the big juicy ones, which she put to one side, while the little ones would fetch a good price.

  Capers are the buds of the caper-bush flower. Mademoiselle made two piles on a board whitened with salt. It was the end of the harvest. She always left a row of unpicked shrubs up on the hill, and that way she got to see their white flowers bursting into bloom. The flowers lasted only a single day. And right now she was wearing one in her hair.

  Mademoiselle had her back to the room. She had no desire to run away.

  On her way home, she’d noticed that Mazzetta wasn’t in his cave.

  She had even picked up the pace to avoid him catching her with this flirtatious flower in her hair.

  The doctor had frequently suggested that she move into his place if she was afraid of getting another nasty visit. She wasn’t frightened of anything, she had replied.

  This was true: the only fear she had ever experienced had been for Vango’s sake. And now that he had gone away, Mademoiselle felt a painful sense of peace.

  The mystery of Vango’s absence, and his silence, sometimes kept her awake at night. She would talk to him a bit, as if he were still there in his little bed, in the corner of the bedroom. She would regale him with stories. She would tell him about a dazzling big white boat that sailed across the seas, with dozens of dolphins following in its wake.

  Her voice would break at the ends of her sentences. Often, she couldn’t finish her tales.

  But once a year, Vango let her know that he was alive and well. One letter, the day after Easter. A few loops in that clumsy handwriting she was so familiar with. That was all she asked for.

  Mademoiselle slid her hand under the sink.

  She wasn’t mistaken. She had just seen a reflection in the white ceramic tiles. Somebody was behind her. A shadowy shape had emerged from the bedroom and entered the kitchen.

  There was a small shepherd’s knife hidden under the stone sink. She had it in her hand now. The blade was slim and cut like wild grass.

  Mademoiselle mustered all her courage. Her right hand continued sorting capers while the left one gripped the knife.

  The man didn’t move. Mademoiselle was singing. The reflection in the tiles was blurry, but she could see that he wasn’t very tall.

  His silhouette was like a brush-and-ink drawing, with narrow shoulders. Perhaps he was young, or else standing sideways.

  She would be able to overpower him.

  She had no choice. Or her life would be over before the flower in her hair had wilted.

  Mademoiselle was waiting. She needed him to get a bit closer.

  She decided to talk to him without turning around, to let him come to her.

  “You won’t get him. I know what he’s been through,” she called out in Russian before adding enigmatically, “He has the strength of a survivor.”

  Behind her, the figure moved slightly and pinned itself to the wall, as if it couldn’t quite make up its mind.

  “You won’t get him!” she shouted.

  With one leap, the man rushed over.

  She released her left hand and turned around forcefully as the white flower flew out of her hair. The blade of her knife ripped through the air, but it didn’t touch the visitor, who managed to dodge.

  “Mademoiselle!” he shouted.

  The nurse’s fingers relaxed. The knife landed in the thick wood of the tabletop, chopping the caper flower in half.

  She opened her eyes again.

  It was him. The survivor.

  “Vango! Evangelisto! Vango!”

  He fell to his knees before her.

  “Mademoiselle.”

  He wrapped his arms around her waist.

  She was crying so hard that everything was a blur. She clasped Vango’s head and stroked his face to make sure it really was him.

  “Evangelisto, you’re here,” whispered Mademoiselle.

  Vango was getting used to the sound of her voice again and to his name, Evangelisto, which he’d almost forgotten. She had always called him Vango, but on important occasions the full version of his first name would put in an appearance, as if she needed more letters to express everything she wanted to say.

  “Leave, Vango.”

  “Who were you expecting, Mademoiselle? Who were you talking to?”

  “They’re looking for you.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. Leave.”

  “I’m not going to stay for long. I came to ask you something.”

  In his pocket, Vango could feel the piece of paper from Ethel. The message had landed in his hands, transported by an invisible force. And it asked the question that would haunt him from now on: “Who are you?”

  Vango was reviewing his life and its mysteries.

  There are some closed doors we’re so frightened of opening that we don’t see them anymore. We’ve pushed furniture in front of them; we’ve jammed the lock. Children are the only ones who might crouch down on all fours to stare at that red glow coming from under the door as they wonder what lies behind it. But Vango had always been afraid of the glow. He preferred to soak up the sunlight outside.

  Today, this secret was all that he could see. In barely five days, he had rushed from Paris to get an answer out of his caretaker.

  “Mademoiselle, tell me everything you know. Tell me who I am.”

  She looked up.

  “What?”

  She had understood perfectly, of course.

  “Tell me who I am.”

  “My little one,” she whispered into Vango’s hair, “you are my little one.”

  Vango stood up and gazed deep into her eyes.

  “Tell me,” he begged.

  This time she felt her resolve weakening.

  They stayed like that for several minutes, staring at each ot
her. Mademoiselle had gone to sit down. Her face was unrecognizable. So many memories were flickering across it, one after another. Not a word in all of this. Her face was a flag in the wind, stretched, rippling, supported by the power of recall.

  The winds of memory were bringing an entire other life back with them. There was no time for the sobbing and the laughter to stop. They were like grains of sand whipped up by that Mediterranean wind known as the sirocco.

  Mademoiselle still hadn’t uttered a word, but Vango could already recognize his own life being played out silently across her face.

  “I won’t be able to tell you everything today. These days, I can’t always distinguish between what really happened and what I’ve dreamed. I’ll need a little time.”

  “I haven’t got time!” exclaimed Vango.

  With her finger, Mademoiselle nudged the empty cup that had betrayed the news of Vango’s arrival.

  “I’d like to begin at the end,” she declared. “With the last night. Let me start with the last night.”

  From his belt, Vango took out the silk handkerchief that had never left him: the blue square with the capital V and his surname. And those crumpled words: How many kingdoms know us not.

  Mademoiselle stood up and took the handkerchief. She held it very close to her mouth and began to speak.

  “We’d had fine weather all day.”

  She repeated herself, as if she needed those words to act as a springboard: “We’d had fine weather all day. And when the weather was good, the boat was a little piece of paradise. There was some shade provided by the rattan parasols, making circles on the deck. The three masts swayed gently. The oriental carpets were spread out up on the bridge. The crew shut down the steam engine. It was hot. They were diving off the roof of the boat.”

  Her voice sounded mellifluous; she was smiling.

  “I can see you, Vango. You’re on a deck chair made out of a wood that’s almost black. There are splashes of sunlight around you. I remember a voice singing.”

  She sang the first few notes of a Greek lullaby, as poignant as a siren’s song.

  “Who was singing?” Vango interrupted her with tears in his eyes.

  Mademoiselle continued as if she hadn’t heard him: “We’d had fine weather all day. That evening, you were sleeping on the deck chair in your blue pajamas.”